Caramel and Mocha
by Kerttu
Summary: Dreams can come true. Postmovie but severe case of AU. Slash. Third of the Mentality series.
1. ch1 Eyes can see

Title: Caramel and Mocha (1/?)

Author: Kerttu

Pairing: Sands/El

Rating: R to be on the safe side

Disclaimer: As if anyone could own these guys!

Summary: Post-movie; severe case of AU; dreams can come true

AN: Not beta'ed, so all mistakes thus are mine. Bows to Maureen for planting images of El and Sands doing everything possible (and impossible- sidewise under the bed, come on!) to each other, and to Ebe who has asked and pleaded with and nagged at me to give Sands his gorgeous eyes back.

There was nothing better to wake up to than the feeling of El's arms around him. Tightly encircled by his hands.

In both ways.

Sands bit back a moan when El grazed his earlobe with those Mexican teeth.

His caramel dreams were becoming true. So fuck you, Susanne Vega.

When the fingers teased him, he did moan and pushed back at El's arousal, making now in turn the Mexican groan. With this man he was a shameless slut but El did not need many reminders right now, did he? The Mariachi had his hands full anyway.

El's left picked the pace up, the rhythm quickening to push him into crescendo and the right arm of El tightened around Sands' waist and then the morning was hotter, sweatier, noisier, and even more glorious than before. And-

A sound of the metal hitting the wooden floor. A quiet curse in Spanish.

Somebody dropped something in the adjoining room. Sands smiled at the other person's mishap and nuzzled the pillow some more but the sleep was gone. And he was alone on the bed.

He rolled on his back and glanced around.

He did not know this room. It was clean and did not have the feeling of a hotel hole. There were two armchairs across the room, near the window and a nightstand by his bed, all of them possibly beige. The glass on the nightstand was filled with water and the golden pattern of the glass glittered against the silver of the water in the low light of the room. The shutters allowed only slivers of light in.

And Sands got the feeling there was something very wrong about this situation.

He shot a look towards the door ajar on his left from where the dropping sound had come from. No movement there.

He climbed out of the bed (Why am I wearing a T-shirt? I wasn't a few moments ago… And why am I wearing ONLY a T-shirt?) and padded to the window. It was not locked and either were the shutters. He pushed them open and blinked several times in order to adjust to the sudden bright light.

And he froze.

I do not have eyes anymore… I cannot possibly blink. I cannot-

But he could. He looked at his hands that were gripping now the windowsill so hard that the knuckles were white. He looked at the bright blue sky above and the white tower of the church that was visible over the tin roof of the neighbouring house. On the tin roof the paint was shedding…

"Well, hello."

Sands spun around.

There stood Ramirez, the half of his face purple and yellow. "Are you back here yet?"

"What?" Sands leaned against the windowsill and held on.

Where was El?

Why was Ramirez here?

What was happening?

Why can I suddenly SEE?

Where were they? Were they even alive?

He felt his knees getting weak.

Nothing was making sense anymore.

Ramirez cleared his throat and Sands snapped his attention back to him. "Do you know who I am?"

"Yes."

Ramirez only looked at him, waiting him to elaborate.

Sands drew a breath. "You are Jorge Ramirez, a former agent of FBI, your badge number was-"

"That's enough. Come, sit down before you fall over. You haven't eaten for three days."

Sands looked at him but stumbled then to the nearest armchair and crashed into it. "What's going on?" He saw that his hands were shaking and he folded them to hide the sign of weakness. Thank God for a long T-shirt, too. Covered all the essentials.

"You do not remember, do you?"

"I wouldn't be fucking asking, if I did."

"Oh, that's the Sands I have been waiting for." Ramirez took a seat in the other chair. "A cigarette?"

"Fuck, yes."

Ramirez offered him light and waited until he had settled back on the chair. "You have been here for three days. Some of those that you employ still have some concern and honour which, in fact, surprises me…"

"I do not follow."

"Ok, let's start then. You sent me to shadow Barillo. I followed him to the hospital. I got caught."

Sands watched how the former agent frowned. "As you can see, they weren't particularly gentle." Ramirez lit a cigarette of his own. After he had exhaled, he continued. "Fortunately for me, Billy Chambers was left to guard me. You remember him?" Receiving a nod to that Ramirez continued: "I had offered him a fair trial in States and he wanted out anyway. So he released me."

"You have learned the beautiful art of manipulation." He sounded almost like always. Good. Cool cucumber was the number he was best at.

"So I have." Ramirez glanced outside where a couple of children were making a ruckus. "It looks the same. The city. As if there were no shooting and-"

"So there was a coup?"

"An attempt of it. The dwellers of Culiacan did not fancy the idea. They hate cartels but they hate ambitious military even more." Ramirez turned back to face him. "Chambers knew that Barillo was going to meet the General in the building the President was staying. I thought I was going to be dead anyway, so I went after the thing you'd offered."

"Revenge for your partner." Sands felt chilly sitting by the open window but the cold kept his mind sharper. And the smoke made a beautiful little spiral curve while drifting outside.

"Exactly. When we got there, the president had been sent safely away, there was only the corpses of Marquez and his troops all over the place and three Mariachis stealing money." Ramirez pinched the bridge of his nose and shrugged. Sands noticed suddenly how tired the man looked. "Well, two were stealing and stuffing their guitar cases, the third came up to me and asked whether I knew you."

"Tallish, dark, brooding, wears black and white?" So El had saved the president. Typical. Just could not allow the grey to win.

"That's the guy."

"Why did he assume that you knew me?"

Ramirez reached into his suit jacket and fished out a cell phone. "That's why. He had one of the same type. He got it from you."

"El, you are not so stupid after all…" Sands smiled and leaned back. "What then?"

"He led me to the back of the building. There, on the back seat of a black-red striped sports car, were you. Barely alive and totally out of it."

"Why?"

"Drugs. He showed me needle marks on your neck and arm. El…, was it El?"

Sands nodded and put his cigarette out. He pushed the sleeve up and looked at his right upper arm that had, indeed, itched. True, there was a mark of an injection.

So far, so good and some of his sanity was still salvageable.

Ramirez shifted and coughed to clear his throat. "El had found you after escaping Barillo's estate. He noticed this car parked in front of a cantina and recognised it as yours."

Sands had to physically stop himself from gaping. He had no idea that El knew THAT. "And?" he prompted when Ramirez was working out kinks from his neck and not giving further information. How in a hell did he end up here and how he was not blind and…?

"He asked me to look after you till you either woke up or died."

"And you did."

"Yes. 72 hours of intense interagency co-operation."

Ramirez had not known anything more of why or how exactly had El found him. So having spent two lazy days eating, soaking in bath, cleaning the guns he still had left, and packing Sands took out the small scrap of paper with the address Bellini had given him. He needed information; that was his job description and his tool of control.

He was going to visit the Guitar town.


	2. chp 2 Ears can hear

Title: Caramel and Mocha (2/?)

Author: Kerttu

Pairing: Sands/El

Rating: R to be on the safe side

Disclaimer: As if anyone could own these guys!

Summary: Post-movie; severe case of AU; dreams can come true

AN: Not beta'ed, so all mistakes thus are mine. Bows to Maureen for giving me images of El and Sands doing everything possible (and impossible- sidewise under the bed, come on!) to each other, and to Ebe who has asked and pleaded with and nagged at me to give Sands his gorgeous eyes back.

The red-black striped sports car became visible again behind the curve. It was coming closer.

El sighed; he had noticed the familiar vehicle when it was good two miles away from the town. He was sitting in the shadow of one of the roof towers; he loved it there, it was peaceful and sunny, and now it made it easy to track the car with his eyes.

It did not surprise him to see the Gringo stepping out of the vehicle - Sands was by far too curious for his own good - but El had hoped that the American would not know how to come here.

He had hoped although he knew better. Sands could get his information when he really wanted it.

He had also hoped that even though the Gringo would know where to come he would not do that.

Apparently his hopes were crushed once again.

El's fingers ghosted over the strings but the sound was too soft to be heard. He kept watching the newest guest of their village. He had saved Sands, it had seemed a logical choice at the time but now the man obviously wanted some answers – the damned curiosity again - and El was not sure he had any.

Sands was talking and gesturing with one of the younger guitar makers, but it seemed that he had no luck. Recalling how the same situation had resolved itself the last time anyone came asking for the famous El Mariachi and got a negative answer, El took the sharp-shooter pistol Lorenzo had given him, and aimed it on Sands, balancing it on his crooked elbow. He could see through the scope that the American looked much better (considering the last time El had seen him, when Sands was stoned and shivering) but still too thin. He seemed unhappy of not receiving the information he wished for but he was not pulling a gun either.

Nevertheless, El tracked Sands, keeping a clear aim on him until the American had stepped into the only legal local establishment that offered rooms for rent.

It seemed that El had now plans for the evening.

Sands knew his prayer to meet El had been answered when he finished his second drink and got up from the table and the world around him began to turn dark. His consciousness gave a big and long fight kicking and screaming but whatever had rigged the game against him this time worked fast. All he heard was the sound of Mariachi chains and then nothing.

He came to in his own room, on his bed, unarmed and saw El sitting on his bed, aiming a big gun at him.

"You were looking for me."

"There are no other tourist attractions here, is there?" he slurred and slowly dragged himself into sitting position. The room made some masterful acrobatics.

El, who, thank God, stayed in focus, smirked and put the gun away. "You could say that."

"Vow, a joke from you! Did you buy a sense of humour along with that new fancy phallic symbol? And how are you living off my money?"

"Your money?" El's brows knitted exactly like Sands had seen in his imagination and he hated himself of being distracted so easily. "You promised us payment, Sands."

"Aah, but promises are not my strongest points." He flashed a quick smile and hoped that the drugged state did not mellow it sharpness.

"You mean - keeping them."

El's voice dropped, indicating danger, and Sands wanted to knee the man to his balls because, well, Pavlov was still in work here. He became aware that El had even found the tiny double-shooter he had stashed in his trousers. The thought of El removing THAT gun did nothing to abate his arousal. No siree. It was more like adding a barrel of gasoline into the bonfire. His breath hitched but his answer was still arrogant: "That too."

"I cannot understand why I bothered to kill all those people to save you." El had stood up and walked to the other end of the room. And, yes, his pants did jingle the way Sands recalled from his wet drug dreams. Or would it be a drug wet dreams?

"Glad you brought it up. Why did you?" He looked up in a way he hoped was indicating innocent curiosity. He could see that El was far from believing it.

"You could not defend yourself. Even a… bastard like you should have that option."

"Fair enough." Sands flopped back down and sprawled on the bed. The room stopped spinning. "I suppose I should thank you." His hand brushed the pillow and he knew he had hidden a gun under it. He could only hope – and wasn't he doing that a lot lately – that El had not found it already.

"Leaving me and this town alone is enough." El had turned and watched him.

"And let's not forget the money." Sands slid towards the headboard, as if to right himself on the bed and his hand slipped under the pillow.

Nothing.

"I would not be so careless with my guns."

Sands twisted, looking at El.

Who was holding his pistol and the damn Mexican was actually smiling.

"So you caught me." Sands sat up and spread his hands with a wide gesture. "Now what, when I am on your mercy, drugged and vulnerable?"

"I think the only time I have seen you drugged AND vulnerable was a week ago, when they carried you out from the cantina, unconscious, and I had to hot wire your car to follow you." El walked to the window on the farthest wall and put the American's gun on its windowsill. Sands noticed that all his other firepower was also laid out there. The Mariachi had been thorough indeed.

"How did you know it was my car?"

"I have eyes and…" El noticed from the corner of his eye how Sands compulsively swallowed when the man thought he could not see. "…some sources of my own."

"Hmm. Where did they take me?"

"Barillo's doctor had a practice not far from Vaca Volante. It was not hard to get in, they did not expect anyone to come after you." El leaned against the wall and looked at Sands. Now, when he was looking for it, he noticed that the Gringo was nervous. He hid it well but he was nervous.

"Was there a woman with them?" Sands faced him again. They did not trust each other. Just as well, at least it was plain to see for them both. 'And am I glad that I still can…'

"Yes."

"Did you… kill her?" Sands could not believe that someone else had done that. He remembered what he had dreamed of it. In a vivid Dolby Surround.

It had been SO PAINFULLY real.

In a matter of fact, EVERYTHING had been so real…

The drill and the dripping blood and the blind shoot-out and the restraints and El in the car and El in his bed and…

Was this even reality? How could he tell the difference? Did he even have to?

"Yes, I killed her. She shot at me first, though."

Sands snorted, jerked back into the present time: "She would, Ajedrez was like that."

That made El scrutinise him for a moment. "You knew her."

"Oh I did, in many ways and positions, and then again, I did not know her at all." Bitterness was plain to hear and El could not stop asking: "What did she do?"

"She was the one who… handed me over."

"She betrayed you."

"Oh, she was loyal" Sands spat it out with venom to spare. "To her family. She was the kingpin's daughter."

"Barillo's?"

"Yeah."

"That explains why she shot at me when I-"

"- stormed the good doctor's stronghold, sure." Sands sighed and gulped – he was nauseous.

Again. 'At least I am not in a car right now… But that was a dream, right?'

Drinking and drugs and especially thinking about the horrendous might-have-beens did not mix well it seemed.

"I knew her, too."

El's comment shocked a question out of him: "How?"

"She drove me back to the city when I escaped from the Barillo estate."

"It does not make any fucking sense, and no jokes about me being drugged since you were behind that one!" Sands pointed a finger at El. "… but how did you end up in-"

"You really cannot find much trustworthy help, can you?" El almost smiled before adding: "Cucuy."

"That whoring son of a bitch! I knew it! Damn!" Sands shrugged.

Not a wise move.

He was not a little nauseous anymore; it was more likely a tropical storm churning in his stomach. And who knew what they had mixed with his tequila this time? Especially for Gringos who come asking for El Mariachis shortly after the now already very dead Boogeyman had killed a man here…

Eye drops and a dash of methanol, perhaps?

'I could end up blind still…'

He managed to stand up but now the room was doing a roller-coaster impression, and the bloody thing was gaining momentum.

"Are you alright?" Ahaa, and the infamous concern of El made its appearance.

"Peachy." Sands forced to himself to take unsteady steps towards the bathroom door. Even that thing was flicking in and out of focus. So if he does not make it to the bathroom, what then? A major case of humiliation, that's what.

He made it to the bathroom and as a good boy threw up into the toilet but after that he could not get up anymore. And that WAS humiliating.

He did not recall how he got out of the bathroom and onto the bed but there he was and for some odd reason El sat again by his side and waited. Sans visible guns but he knew better than to assume that El had none on his person. Though it did intrigue him where had the Mexican hidden the big piece he had been showing off before.

Sands turned his head and something damp fell off his forehead.

And, lo and behold, the Mexican legend had even put a cold cloth on his forehead. How disgustingly cute.

'I was a… _enfermero_' Sands' false but realistic memory whispered to him with the caramel covered whip-leather voice. Voice made for sinning in the dark places.

The real El (Sands really-really hoped – AGAIN that little nasty verb – that this reality was the real one) felt his gaze and turned slightly: "How many Pedro's drinks did you drink?"

Sands shrugged and flinched. Now his extremely heavy head began hurting. "Go and fucking ask him. But I congratulate you for successful spiking."

"You are lucky to have been on your own legs at all. He knows his business very well." El picked the damp cloth up and began folding it.

"And what is that, exactly? Cleaning out innocent tourists who bring in money?"

"You, agent Sands," and Sands could hear both the amusement and the judgement in El's words although The's face was hidden behind his hair. "are no innocent, no tourist and you came here to clean out our money, am I right?"

Since El WAS right and Sands would have never admitted that, he was silent.

El, turned, smirked but did not poke. Instead he placed the cloth on the nightstand and asked: "Tell me, Sheldon Jeffrey Sands, why did you really want to see me?"

"You went through my things, didn't you?" Sands felt somehow violated. He had not thought that this pistolero would stoop so low. But El, who had turned his back again, HAD almost strip-searched him to get that particular pistol... One does pick up tricks of trade on their way.

El gave a small nod. "I did. You would have done the same."

"No."

"No?" A small surprised word from El and his voice again sent something inside of Sands flip-flopping. Not in the nauseous kind of way at all and oh, how he despised El for it.

"No." His little word was as venomous as the following. "I would have poisoned you, gone through your things while you would have been thrashing with pain and if you had been lucky I would have shot you."

"Are you trying to make me angry?" The look El cast over his shoulder could have almost been described as flirty.

"Am I succeeding?"

"No." El turned more, chiming, and faced him thoroughly. "My turn to be… Padre."

"Confide in you?" Sands slurred and grinned like a mad man. "Why should I?"

"You came here looking for me."

"Well, perhaps I wanted to see that you have once again entombed yourself into this little town." Sands sat up, ignored the roar of blood in his ears. "Which you have." He smiled sweetly at El, pushed his legs over the edge of the bed and got up. "I am leaving now."

"I do not think so."

El had not moved but he could feel the Mexican's gaze on his back.

"Are you going to stop me?"

"No, but you cannot walk or drive like this."

"Stoned up to gills? I have and I will." Sands stumbled (the Earth really WAS round) to the chair he had put his duffel bag on. He reached to take it and then abruptly the floor was getting closer. He braced himself against the fall but only barely. A pain blossomed on his shoulder and he heard a moan. 'My own pretty voice … my, oh, my.'

"I told you." El's hands steadied and lifted him and he fought them but the man was unmovable. "Stop it. You have to sleep the drug off."

"I will… not… "

"Look, Sands." El was sitting beside him on the floor, their thighs were touching, warm and secure, and the only thing keeping Sands even a little upright was El's arm behind his back. Take that away and he would fall back like a puppet without strings. 'And I thought I was a marvellous puppeteer…'

"You came here for a reason." El shifted and was now crouching. The spur on his boot scratched the floor when he turned. "I want to know what it is. I am almost sure I am going to be sorry later but I need to know."

"Fuck… you." Even that did not sound right.

El only sighed, and hauled him up. The world tilted again, the floor followed and then somebody flipped the light switch.

There was soft dirt under his bare back and El was doing something absolutely incredible to his groin only with one finger. "God!!"

"Much better." El was smiling, Sands heard it, and, although the Agent knew the smugness of the Mexican's tone should annoy him, he was physically not able to.

El overwhelmed him.

He could only feel the man, his touch, and right at this moment being blind was not an issue. Sands just gripped El tighter and tighter and wrapped himself around him like a noose when the climax tore itself free.

"So was this the reason you wanted to have flowerbeds? To have sex amidst pots of plants and dirt?" El held him and did not mind one bit that they were literally soiled all over.

"Well, I do love the smell of flowers as well, but mainly…" The American allowed his hands wonder in a lazy caress over El's chest and stomach.

"So you could grope a good feel while I am bent over?"

"Yeah." Sands reached up and kissed him. He had never missed any of his kisses. Not while angry and demanding satisfaction or while almost asleep.

A split-second of bliss when the somewhat coarse lips of El were dancing with his and then a gasp of pain against his mouth and a gunfire and when did he draw his own gun and emptied the clip… and then silence with his own harsh breathing puncturing it like a needle through a skin.

No other sound.

No other.

He dropped onto his knees. El's body was there, lying amidst the planting soil and the broken pieces of pots and it was still…

"El?"

He touched the chest and his fingers came off slick, slippery and now he smelled blood. He groped for the pulse, desperate, fear clawing at his throat, making his own breath catch, stop.

Nothing.

"No! Damn, no! El! Fuck!! No, you moron, you cannot-" Eyes that weren't there cried. Sobs he had not known having broke away and hunched him over. "Fucking no!!"

"Sands!"

He gasped awake and failed around in the darkness. A hand closed around his wrist, strong and serene.

Two sets of breathing.

Two.

Thank God…

"El?"

"Yes. You were dreaming." The voice of caramel and calm.

"One motherfucking nightmare." He realised he was shaking.

"Try to sleep. It's late." The hand wanted to withdraw but Sands clung to it. He could not stop his reaction. El sighed. "Lie down and go to sleep." There was a shuffle and single jingle of the pants' chains and The's fingers moved but didn't leave. And sleep came at once, curling around Sands like he had curled around the lifeline of El's touch.


	3. chp3 The taste of fury

Title: Caramel and Mocha (3/?)

Author: Kerttu

Pairing: Sands/El

Rating: R to be on the safe side

Disclaimer: As if anyone could own these guys!

Summary: Post-movie; severe case of AU; dreams can come true

AN: Not beta'ed, so all mistakes thus are mine. Bows to Maureen for ideas of smut (I hope 'under the kitchen table' satisfies your taste), and to Ebe who has asked and pleaded with and nagged at me to give Sands his gorgeous eyes back.

The next morning was the coldest Sands had ever experienced in Mexico.

Perhaps the reason for that were the altitude and a half-opened window that allowed the light stream in. If he recalled correctly that had been closed last night.

Perhaps it was so freezing because he was alone in his room, only a note on the windowsill under his gun. His normal side-arm, not the others. Apparently El had put other things back to his bag.

Although a blanket had been pulled over him, he was still shivering when he got out of the bed and went to retrieve the piece of paper.

All it said was: "I have my answer."

Sands wrinkled the note and growled, looking out at the small plaza and the big building across it. "Well, you Mexi-cunt, I haven't."

"So what did you learn yesterday?"

El turned and looked at Sands who was standing at the roof behind him. The put the guitar gently down and leaned his back against the stone railing.

"You have grown a heart."

Sands snorted: "Fuck you."

"And there is that, yes." El fixed his eyes on the horizon behind Sands' back. "That is most likely your other wish." The strong icy wind was whipping his unbound hair this way and that and El shrugged to get it out of his face.

Sands could not stop staring at El although the cold cut also through the jacket he had thrown on. He could not believe what he was hearing. But well, two could definitely play – and rig - THIS game. "It is too bloody freezing to do it here. Balls would fall off."

"True." El picked up his guitar and Sands made a silent promise that if the man began to pluck it he would be dead in two seconds flat.

But El did not.

He walked up to the American, still holding the guitar, looked at him, smiled with a tiny curl of his mouth and said: "Let's talk."

"You live in here?"

"Yes."

The mansion was huge and although in most part it was neglected and quite run-down, the four rooms El used were in pretty good order.

The Mexican led him through a corridor into a kitchen. It was much warmer here.

"Coffee?"

Sands stopped scrutinising the room and turned. El was holding up a pot.

"You made coffee?"

"I suspected that you would not take my advice and leave." El put the pot on the stove. He was handling the thing with care, so it had to be scalding.

"And you made coffee?" Somehow the concept of El measuring the right amount of coffee and hot water to make the every American's favourite morning addiction boggled Sands' mind. El just was not a domestic type, for one. Shooting bars apart and blowing up cars he could imagine with no difficulty at all but boiling – and literally boiling as there was no coffee-machine of any sort in sight – coffee for a person who by all means should be regarded as an enemy... It just did not compute.

"I think you need one after Pedro's specials. You managed to down two." El smiled at him over his shoulder. "Of course I asked him in the morning. And-" he turned and took two mugs off the shelf and put them on the handy counter by the stove. "I must say I am impressed. Many much bigger men have only drank half of one and fallen over."

Sands sat down by the table

"Well, I am special." He could do smug even while wondering whether he still was sleeping and if yes, then where and in what conditions.

"You certainly are." El put a mug in front of him. "It's very strong."

Sands nodded but waited until El had taken his own first sip. Little caution was never harmful. The man was right though, the coffee was extremely strong and bitter. "Do you have anything to-"

"Over there."

Adding sugar and cream (real cane sugar and real, thick cream) to his coffee, Sands felt surreal. Him, having coffee with El whom he had enlisted for assassinating a president. Him, being the one not asking questions. Him, still not sure whose dream this was.

"Why do you need me?"

He almost choked on his coffee. El was unpredictable, indeed.

"What are-"

"Let me tell you what I saw yesterday night."

"Oh, your big answer." Sands took another sip and decided that El did know how to make a good cup.

"I saw a man who came here searching for something or someone. He was very nervous when he found the answer to his puzzle." El's tone was quiet and the words were short but they built a cage. "And he cried in his sleep over him and needed his touch to fall asleep again, too scared even to open his eyes." There was a short silence and Sands felt like even the time slowed down. The act of sharing a cup coffee with El was suddenly as dangerous as being shot with a nuke. And El was continuing: "Why do you need me? What happened to you while you slept?"

"Wouldn't you just want to know." A sneer he could always do. Even then when his innards were filled with feelings that were as alien there as stones and shards of glass. And exactly as disastrous.

"I would." El stood and although he simply walked slowly towards him, Sands sensed the stalking predator in him. And he was the rabbit before a python. Mesmerised and helpless and absolutely sure he was going to be eaten. El stopped directly in front of him, pinning him with a look: "Tell me."

"No."

"Pity. Then all I can ever give you is this."

The kiss was so quick – not a snake, but a scorpion - that Sands was not sure he felt it at all. But he reacted and hit the man who had pierced his protective shields.

He used the mug, hot coffee splashing everywhere.

And then they were fighting, struggling, trying to get the upper hand and this was true and familiar violence, Sands could live with that and then-

He was crushed against the wall, chest-to-chest, hands held in an efficient although awkward grip.

"You did not draw your gun." A strong thigh pressed between his legs, nudged. "Any of them. Why?" El was close enough to be head-butted but then he would be dazed, too.

"I do not need a gun to kill you!" He pulled at his hands but El held firm.

"You do not need a gun because you do not have to kill me." The's voice was enticing him still, working its magic as it had done in his dreams. The small voice in his mind whispered, chuckling: 'Which ones, pray, tell me?'

Sands drew a breath. "I think I do."

"Why?"

Lovely-lovely confusion. Easy to exploit. Perhaps.

"Because-"

El cut in, his voice licking at Sands' mental pleasure centre: "You need me? Is that so bad?"

Confused, my ass. The had a 20/20 perceptive vision that would make an eagle look blind.

Sands bucked but El was ready and although they lost their footing and met the rather hard kitchen floor intimately, he was still not released. El rolled on top of him, pinning him again.

"Can't we talk about this?" The Mexican suggested, a little breathless after their scuffle.

"No! Fucking get your muck-coloured hands off!" A quick and VERY illegal move and they were on business again, all wired up on adrenaline and strong coffee.

It made no sense but at some point the struggle cease to be about hurt and began to be about pleasure.

Not in a million years would have Sands thought that he would get one of his strongest orgasms while being half-way under a solid wooden kitchen table, his hands twisted behind his back and dry-humped against the coffee-stained cold stone floor that was still littered with shards of his shattered mug.

"Are you calmer now?"

Sands shrugged, forehead against the tiles of the floor. He was shocked breathless and tired but he was not going to give in an inch.

El shifted behind him, his weight lifted, and the grip around his wrists tightened.

"I do not want to hurt you, so get up."

They did, although it was not an elegant move.

"I think you would like to wash, right?"

By that time Sands had regained his breath.

"What is this, anyway? First shag me and then clean me?"

"Move." He was pushed forward.

The Mexican walked him into the bathroom and shoved him a little.

When Sands twisted around, he faced a gun. His own, if his eyes were not mistaken. No surprise there. El had, after all, divested him of his weaponry once more. And yes, even the small gun had been removed from his pants.

He held still but gave a looney smile: "So now what? A wet dream in a wet environment?"

"I will leave you for a half an hour. The door will be locked."

Then El was retreating, closing the door.

"You son of a-" Sands threw himself forward but the barrel came up and zeroed on his forehead.

"Behave."

Then El was gone, the lock turned and he was alone in the bathroom.

"You. Are. Dead!!!"

The door opened inward but it seemed not only be locked but also bolted from outside. The rattling did no good.

A quick glance out of the window convinced him that he could not escape: he was two storeys up and they were high storeys. People of older days knew how to build an imposing mansion. There was no cornice to climb onto, either. And to top his bad luck, the window was nailed shut.

So the brightest thing to do was to clean oneself up and think how to get a drop on the man holding his gun.


	4. chp4 Hands may touch deeper than words

Title: Caramel and Mocha (4/?)

Author: Kerttu

Pairing: Sands/El

Rating: R to be on the safe side

Disclaimer: As if anyone could own these guys!

Summary: Post-movie; severe case of AU; dreams can come true

AN: Thank you, Kazren, for fabulous beta. All the mistakes that remain are all mine. Bows to Maureen for ideas of smut (I hope 'tied up and undressed' satisfies you), and to Ebe who asked and pleaded with me and then showed how beautiful that would be if I gave Sands his gorgeous eyes back.

When the half an hour had passed the door opened again. Now there were three barrels meeting him: El held two semi-automatics and one old man aimed a huge rifle at him.

"You really know how to make a guy feel welcomed, don't you, El?"

"Come out." El stepped backwards and Sands noticed that his movements were silent now, no chains – so the Mexican had enjoyed himself too, and with the results that necessitated a change in dress code.

A part of the Agent grinned indulgently. Other parts were somewhat weary of not seeing ways of getting out of this situation. He was crazy, that was a given but he was not suicidal. Going against three firearms was not a good move. Even in his mad books.

He was lead into - surprise-surprise! - a bedroom. The lack of embellishments screamed El.

"Get on the bed."

Sands could not NOT smile.

"What? A threesome? I AM flattered, but-"

"Shut up and do it."

He did. El gestured with his right hand gun. "Spread your hands over the headboard and do not move."

"And you are still saying this is not a-"

"Be silent."

The old man put the rifle down, came over – El covering Sands without even blinking – and tied the American to the headboard.

"Kinky, El, very kinky..." Sands leaned sensuously back against it, at the same time surreptitiously testing his bonds (the man had done a damn good job) and bared his throat. "Are you going to-"

"Now we will talk."

Sands watched under lowered lids how El sent the man away, made the pistols disappear from his hands with a single flick of his wrists, closed the door and sat on a chair by the bed. "I tried nicely-"

Sands' head snapped back up. "You call drugging 'nice'?"

The dark eyes only gave him a Look. "That was a precaution and you know it. I meant coffee."

"Oh, and was pushing me down and having your wicked way with me nice also?"

El glared at him: "Who hit me first?"

"Who kissed first?"

El glare softened, turned into amused and he smiled a little. "I did. And I must say I do not basically regret what happened later."

"I always knew you were masochist, El."

The once-musician-now-killer looked at the ceiling and nodded. "You are probably right. I should have just knocked you out and drove you back to the nearest city. Less problems."

"There you are wrong, my dear El." Sands waited until El was facing him again before he allowed a slow smirk to emerge: "You see: I would have come back."

El moved to sit by his side, an answering smirk on his face. It made him look deeply mischievous. "And I would have again asked for the reason."

Smile was gone in a split second and Sands regarded him coldly, although his heart rate was beginning to climb again: "Really?"

El leaned closer and whispered: "Yes." That was definitely a flirt. And even as trite as it was, it worked, damn it.

Sands gritted his teeth and answered then, calm as ever: "So now what?"

"Now you tell me, why you had to come here."

Sands plopped his head back against the headboard. It was not the most comfortable position – his bruised shoulder groaned at him - but he couldn't complain. At least he got somewhat away from the man's disturbing presence and he was also fairly sure El was not going to gut him. "We did talk about it already."

"No. I asked and you dodged." El moved also back to sit more comfortably.

"Correction: I hit and YOU dodged." Sands began to study the cracks in the ceiling. El had to do a whole lot more and be VERY convincing about it if he wanted anything from him. 'But haven't you already given away what you really want?' the nasty little voice nagged again. Sands closed his eyes for a moment to block the voice and the world out.

"Do you really want to go on arguing?"

El's voice in the darkness only made the naughty voice inside his scull snicker and Sands was forced to open his eyes again. Some of the ceiling cracks were actually really interesting.

"It is the only weapon you have left in my reach."

"Aren't you tired of manipulating?"

A smug smile and a sing-song voice: "It's in my very nature, cannot change that."

El was quiet for moment. Then the mattress dipped and Sands was suddenly straddled.

"What-"

"Shh-"

"Don't you 'shh' me, you heavy log of –"

A mouth, hot, demanding and with a lingering hint of black coffee, descended on him like a desert eagle. Hands held his face in place and he could not breathe. Two thighs held him efficiently down.

He was released and for a split second he felt both adrift and bereft. There was no air left in his lungs.

"Is this what you want from me?" El asked and his fingers turned him to face the dark questioning eyes. In this close range Sands could tell that the Mexican legend was not so young anymore. But he was still very handsome.

"Ap-fucking-parently! Any more stupid questions?" When El did not react at once, Sands wrenched his head free. "No? Good! Now release me!"

"Why do you fear?"

"What?" He was angry now. He. Was. Not. Afraid.

Never that.

El sat back and looked at him. "You are scared."

Sands' eyes grew big, dark and very cold: "I am angry, you rotten unsuccessful assassin, and pissed off of being stuck here like this, and perhaps somewhat hungry but I am not 'scared'."

El smiled. He did not think it came out particularly nice one, though.

It did not matter.

The Gringo had come looking for answers. The ones he found obviously did not please him.

Too bad.

El had not thought he had any answers to give but it was plain to see that he WAS the answer. And since he had always been more a man of action than talk…

Sands jumped when El began unbuckling the American's trousers. "What do you think-" A hand slipped in and since after the bathroom he was commando, the first touch sent him teetering in the edge.

He gasped and arched and then El's mouth closed over his again.

It seemed that no time passed between the moment when El reached down and the moment when Sands shouted a short obscene word and blew up.

When the world came back to him, El lounged comfortably by his side and leaned his head on Sands outstretched arm. He was looking at him with a certain expectant air.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just looking."

"And what do you see, oh great gitarrista?"

"A dangerous man who is very-"

"If you say 'pretty' I am going to murdphhh-"

"I was going for 'beautiful'." El said after he had released Sands' mouth. "And addictive." He nuzzled Sands neck and to his own horror Sands heard himself sigh with pleasure. He struggled but managed some irony: "So great El Mariachi is a gay gun-fighter…"

"A Man follows his passions." El's hand slid onto his chest and he began unbuttoning Sands' shirt one button at a time. Its progress was excruciatingly slow and disturbingly arousing – and Sands could not remember that last time he had been so quick to get excited. Not since early puberty for sure.

He fought against the tide of arousal that El's fingers drew out so damn easily from his body: "A proper Catholic man should not follow this kind of passion."

"A proper Catholic man should not kill either." The shirt was open and El rolled on top of him, looking into his eyes. "But since I do…" He left the sentence unfinished and found suddenly Sands' collarbone extremely interesting. A focused, almost piercing look, a soft touch and then a long warm lick that made the American's ears ring.

"You… seem – oh fuck! – very… dedicated… to your… cause… now." Sands panted while El was painting his chest with what felt like brand-marks but must have been only the licks of his tongue. El just smiled, he could feel it in the curving of his lips against his skin and the man was driving him towards sexual frenzy again. And his body was loving each and every second of it.

It disturbed him.

It unsettled him.

It, well, rocked his world and doing that it tipped his scales of control and manipulation and he was just a human with his wants and needs and urges and the calm conniving tricking chess-master vanished under the scorching touches of Mexico. And left him truly and deeply afraid.

Fear, old bastard, decided this time be the utter aphrodisiac and did him quickly in once more.

"You are rather easy, Agent Sands." El's voice commented on his left. Sands did not even bother to open his eyes.

"Sure… Tie anyone up and… they are easy." An exhausted slur. God, he was tired now. Three orgasms within an hour. Never thought that was possible… Well, for a male anyway.

There was no fight left in him, at least not in that particular minute. Sands became aware that his hands were quite numb and his bruised shoulder was cramping. "Are you… going to keep me here like this forever?"

"Promise not to fight again?"

Sands felt his mouth curling into a nasty smile without even thinking about it. "I promise nothing."

"Fair enough." El's fingers were at his left wrist, the bonds loosened and Sands drew his hand back, curling the fingers. Pins and needles erupted across his skin. El must have seen his reaction, because suddenly the man's hands were rubbing his arm and shoulder. "Sorry about this."

"Bah…" Where had El learned to massage like that? 'Or perhaps his touch just feels so good because he is more than your match?' The tiny voice inside his head was a persistent bugger.

El moved closer to him and the man urged him to lean slightly forward. "What are you doing?"

"Just feel. I promise: no pain."

Sands quirked an eyebrow but the hands on his neck felt too good to argue. If El wanted to cater for his every need… He could very well live with that.

Then El's fingers found a very sore spot and he winced: "No pain? Really?"

"Not intentional at least."

"Ahh, so you do know how to talk yourself out of tight spot?"

"I know many things." The Mexican planted a small kiss on Sands' shoulder. "It does not mean I use all of them." El reached over, his chest brushed Sands' back (a heat that sent AGAIN some NIIICE naughty jolts down to Sands' spine) and the American was free. 'I should try to leave…' But now his other shoulder and arm were treated with the same luxurious kneading and Sands just could not make himself get up.

'Alright, for a little while I can stay…' even the little voice in his head conceded, and, smugly smiling, Sands did.


	5. chp5 Heart feels without rules

Title: Caramel and Mocha (5/5)

Author: Kerttu

Pairing: Sands/El

Rating: R to be on the safe side

Disclaimer: As if anyone could own these guys!

Summary: Post-movie; severe case of AU; dreams can come true

AN: Thank you, Kazren, for fabulous beta. The mistakes that remain are all mine. Bows to Maureen for ideas of smut (I figure that 'confused and languid' meets your approval), and to Ebe who asked and pleaded with me and then showed how beautiful that would be if I gave Sands his gorgeous eyes back.

They had spent the rest of the morning in bed, sleeping – El seemed to be able to slumber anywhere with anyone and Sands was still having a semi-hangover from the drug. Plus their mutual activity had only added to his exhaustion. When El noticed him yawning, he had just pulled Sands horizontal, held him close and murmured softly to him an order to sleep. This time Sands did not fight him.

He woke when a group of children ran screeching over the market place. El was still asleep, his face borrowed against the American's shoulder and for a moment Sands did not want to move an inch.

It felt nice there.

Nice and calm. Weird combination in his case, actually.

Weird and slightly frightening.

He slid out of the bed, hunted for his cigarettes and lit up.

He had to think. He was not used this kind of feeling at all.

He walked to the window and looked out.

The plaza had come to life after the siesta.

Sands leaned against the windowsill, observing the buzz of the rural guitar market, smoked, and realised that he was enjoying his sudden inner peace.

The last one was a rare thing and usually it made him weary but here and now, in this town and with this man… He was hard pressed to admit that he liked it.

Liked it a lot. 'I had no idea that orgasms worked like taser shocks.'

A movement behind him and he did not feel the need to attack.

Weird.

El's fingers twined into his hair and pulled his head back, slowly and sensuously. He loved even that, however odd that was. Then the cigarette was snatched away from his fingers and El blew out a long grey stream himself.

"I did not know you smoked."

El smiled crookedly and moved closer to hold Sands. "Carolina."

"What about her?" Sands leaned back, into El's shirtless embrace, and was rewarded with a nibble on his right ear.

"She did not like it…" Another nibble, now attacking his neck. A breath against his hot skin. "Because of our daughter and the bookstore."

El was pushing down his trousers, in the open view for everyone on the plaza and he could only cling to El's arm and allow it… and gasp: "Bookstore?"

The fingers coaxed his skin in flames and the voice only added fuel. "Carolina owned one. It burned down." El turned him around and kissed him. "Because of me."

"Figures."

El smiled, took another long draft and gave the cigarette back. Sands took it automatically, then looked at it accusingly and threw it out of the window. "Fuck that. Right now I want to-"

"Fuck me?" El's amusement was palpable and contagious and the Mexican saw how Sands' eyes twinkled with mischief. It was a good look on him.

"Offering?"

"Let's just… play."

Sands smiled, suddenly utterly cheerful: "Fine!"

A shove and El was sprawled on the floor. Before he could get up, Sands had shimmied out his already opened trousers and cowboy boots and pinned him down. El did not fight, only looked at him with singular intensity. No fear although a madman was lying on top of him.

"Are you not afraid that I would… twist your neck?"

El shook his head. "You would not be so quick with me."

"Oh no?" The amusement mixed with surprise suited Sands' features well, too.

"You would make me suffer first." The Mariachi's hands came up and pulled Sands flush against him. El reached up, kissed his throat and whispered: "Perhaps…A shot in the gut." Sands froze in his arms and El looked at him, worried. There was fear in his crazy lover's eyes, a flash of desperation. Somehow he seemed utterly lost and vulnerable, even more so than he had been while unconscious. "What is it?"

"El?" The Mexican waited, expecting him to continue. "This is not a dream?"

"No… as far as I know." The crease between El's eyebrows deepened.

"Are you sure?"

"This is Mexico, nothing is sure." El soothed the tense back under his hands with gentle caresses and Sands very slowly and seemingly reluctantly relaxed. "I sometimes see my dead wife guiding me."

"That is not convincing."

"No, it isn't. Not many things are."

"So what are?" Some of the cockiness had returned to Sands' voice. He was recovering from whatever had spooked him. He did it very quickly and El was not sure whether he was assured or frightened by it.

He shoved the issue aside, though, and answered. "A loaded gun in my hand… the guitar strings under my fingers…" El smiled a little. "This body on top of me."

"And what would you do with this conviction?"

"Take him back to bed."

In the afternoon of the same day they lumbered out from the manor to eat in the local equivalent of the fine restaurant (the tables had cloths and the fan on the ceiling worked) because they were both very hungry and El claimed to be too tired to cook.

"And you are not saying this only to save your sorry arse?" Sands commented when they were both sitting by the table and waiting their orders.

"Why?"

Sands only smiled.

"Oh, that." El smirked. "So did you shoot that cook?"

"Of course."

There was a flamboyant tease in Sands' answer but there was also pride and certainty that only comes with telling the truth.

A shiver rushed down El's spine. Sands was mad, he knew it but to hear it… And he had already slept with the man, gloriously so.

It was too late to turn away and too thrilling not to pursue.

So he leaned over the corner of the table and whispered: "Try not to do this here. I live here."

"Why?"

"Because they would not want-"

"No, why do you live here?" Sands took another cigarette out, lit it. "Nothing is happening here."

"Hmm." El sat back and thought about it. He had liked it that way: no guns, no blood, no pain. Only memories of good times… until Sands' men came and shuttered the status quo. "It's comfortable."

"Is it?" Sands was looking at him through the swirling grey smoke rings and it somehow made El think of a seducing demon. "I mean… Sure, you can find peace and quiet here but anything else?"

El pondered about it again. In some ways Sands was right: his life had been rather dull before Sands dragged him out but he had needed the slow turn of time. He had to numb the pain left by the deaths of his family. And it seemed now that here was the point when things would change again.

He had tasted the revenge and that was bitter but he had also tasted the rush of kill and that was like an old addiction flaring up. Plus Sands had thrown in a speedball of himself and El just knew that he was too hooked already to the American to go without. Sands had stirred his passion and that was a dangerous power to be meddled with.

"You brought passion back to me."

Sands laughed and nodded. "I did notice." He put the cigarette out. "But I am not staying here."

"Do you expect me to come with you?"

'Yes, you idiot of a Mariachi-shooter!' screeched the small voice inside Sands' head. Instead he cocked his head and grinned: "I think we did. The first time under your kitchen table."

El looked blank for a split second and then shook his head. "Is everything a game to you?"

"Sure, how else could I rig it? Talking of which…" Sands turned and to El's utter astonishment demanded in a fluent and very creative gutter Spanish where in hell was their food.

"You-"

"Speak Spanish, yes, I do. They did not send me down here for my good looks alone."

El just sighed. The food arrived – apparently the threat of promising to simmer someone's private parts and then feed them to the same someone worked. Sands dug into his paella with fervour of a hungry child.

El took it easier and just watched his companion. Sands had trotted into his rented room before the dinner and was wearing now another but very familiar cowboy shirt. El had seen it before, in the similar situation in a similar cantina. Only the food had been different and Sands had worn a cowboy hat. The Mexican swallowed his mouthful and asked:

"Why do you have roosters on your shirt?"

Sands glanced sidewise on his own shirt, still munching. He shrugged: "I like cocks."

El almost choked on his drink. Sands only flashed him a brilliant smile and went on eating, calm as ever.

"What do you-" El managed after he had forced his drink down.

"What I said." Sands looked up, realised that El was not following at all and put the fork down. "Let's enlarge your vocabulary then. Roosters and cocks are the same birds. The male-chickens as some lovely dictionaries put it. Very good brand of fowl to draw bets on." Sands took the fork up and drew a line into his food. "Roosters on this side of Atlantic," he tapped the curve of the plate closer to him. "And cocks on the other." He flicked his gaze up, flashed a brief half-smile: "Of course, I do like cocks on this side of Atlantic as well." He began shovelling the food again.

"That you do…"

El's low and rumbling comment surprised Sands a bit. The man missed no opportunity, did he?

He had not expected the Mariachi to be so… blasé about the whole mansex-thing, for one. This WAS, after all, a deeply Catholic country.

He did not like Mariachi's aptness of turning the tables in most physical encounters, too. It irked him even more that El seemed to get the upper hand also in disturbingly numerous conversations. The Mexican was not big at talking but when he did open his mouth… Images of what could come out of it or go in were extremely troubling in oh-so many levels. 'Damn the The to Hell and back.'

Sands sat up straighter and looked at the man. El only quirked his brow and took another sip from his glass.

The American smirked and pointed his fork at him: "Good. You are learning." He met El's gaze and somehow their smiles matched although they were not entirely nice.

Then again, they were not exactly the nicest of guys, were they? So that suited well, too.

The dream mirrored his daily actions – there was lots of physical action, both violent and pleasurable; there was bondage and growling submission and there was bliss. Also, in his dream, they had curled around each other afterwards and Sands had not minded still being bound with silken rope. He had, after all, had a vision (within his own dream!) of an ingenious plan how to twist El's neck while the man is deep-throating him. After really having been in the receiving end of that action he had no intention of breaking the neck attached to that amazing mouth. Oh no. He was going to do his damnedest to keep the two things attached to each other and to his cock.

But then he couldn't – El was kneeling on the floor, hands wrenched to his back, held. His hair obscured his eyes but they could still see each other.

And then they cut El's throat and were making him watch how his lover choked on his own blood and then they took his sight so the last thing he ever saw was…

"Sands!"

He came awake with a whimper and hated himself for that sound.

El drew him closer and held him. The calmness fell over him at once.

It was unbelievable - and utterly illogical, not to say ridiculous- how safe he felt with this man. He kept dreaming about losing him, goddamn't!

If they kept up their relationship ('Did I just think that?'), they could very well end up like that. And yet… he felt safe.

Sands traced the arm around his waist with his fingers and wondered. Why would he find this situation the best from all previous encounters? Why would-

"You still cannot sleep?"

El's voice curled around him as snugly as did his arm. 'And there's your answer, Agent Sheldon Jeffrey Sands...' The little voice sounded as sated as he physically was.

He had taken his bags and moved into El's manor – for the time being.

Only for the short while when he was in this tiny shit-hole of a guitar-town.

El made a small sigh, indicating that he was still waiting for the answer.

"I do not sleep much."

"Bad dreams?"

Sands grinned, silent, but amused. 'Just a long detailed nightmare about being blind and helpless and sometimes locked up.' "You could say that."

El brushed his hair off his neck and kissed the revealed skin. "Tell me about your... _sueńa_."

Sands shook his head although he loved the feeling of how El seemed to caress his being by simply holding him close.

"Why not?"

"They are not real."

"While you are seeing them, they are."

The conviction in El's voice chilled Sands suddenly to the bones and he shuddered.

"What's wrong?"

He turned in El's hands and faced him. It was already almost past dusk but he could still make out his features and see the gleam of his eyes. "You make me feel, you bastard."

"That is bad?" El sounded honestly surprised.

"Yes." He burrowed closer, almost melding into El.

"Why?"

El's voice rumbled through him like an earthquake and he found his own conviction lacking the needed strength: "Because...."

The tiny Tim of his mind stirred again. 'Why is it bad?' He did not know. With El he felt and did not have to think, to plan, to weave patterns... Well, he still did the latter but with his senses, not with his mind. And he obviously liked that.

It was liberating. Not to keep in mind who to play against whom, how to balance the odds, which chips to set down, which to hold back.

With El he did not have to hold back.

At all.

He could strike (and hadn't he already done it?) out as much as he wanted and El would give it right back. Perhaps he would lose his mind and sanity completely when let loose but it felt - and exactly FELT - so good right now that he did not care.

"You do not know, don't you?"

"And you would not let me live that one down, will you?"

"I might." The warm mocking sound was a chocolate balm to Sands' stained soul. He mumbled to the slightly sweaty skin against his mouth:

"It does not make sense."

"What does not?" This time a wave of soothing caramel oozed over him, made him lazy and calm and… hap- 'SATISFIED' his mind half-hissed, half-slurred.

"Everything. All this. You and me."

"We?"

He couldn't answer, could not make himself say the incriminating personal pronoun but he relaxed in El's arms and the Mariachi knew the answer. He kissed Sands' hair and whispered: "It does not have make sense to be true."

And like that it was alright: there was an inner peace and an outer balance and they both could live with that.

And the pork was tasted and the tequila was drunk ("Always with lime, my dear El."- "Why?" – "Because lemon is for wuss-pussies!") and things went on as they did in their twisted ways in Mexico; only they were now afraid of two pairs of dark eyes on a trigger-happy honeymoon.


End file.
